Dinner

Catherine’s in the spare room,
dying. She’s trying
madly to remember
who she is.

The rest of us sit down
to dinner–
chairs shriek
across the tile floor.
Confused
by the impossible yellow
of corn, I can’t
remember if it ought
to be that way. I’m startled–
the twist of gristle
warps its way
through the chicken leg
I’m supposed to eat.

Every clink–
fork or knife
on plate–
rises up
above the
table. Each
sound
distinct,
a glass bubble.